Choreography
by liviafan1
Summary: He wants to be the one to whisper in her ear while they sway to a string quartet, his hands splayed across her lower back. He'd brush his hands along the smooth lines of her neck while she blushes and pretends not to notice his obvious need to touch her.


**Slight spoilers for "The Limey". Most of it is a figment of my imagination.**

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><p>He'd spent all evening holed up in his office, pretending to write while his mother and Alexis sprawled out in their respective spots in the living room for a movie marathon. They'd asked him to join, but he waved off promises of ice cream and chocolate drizzled popcorn, swearing that if he didn't churn out another chapter of <em>Frozen Heat, <em>that Gina would have his head.

As it was, Gina _would_ have his head because he certainly hadn't done anything productive. He'd spent the better part of the last hour staring at the blinking cursor while he pouted. Yes, _pouted_.

He wants to be at the gala with her, wants to be the one to bring her flowers and pick her up. And when she scolds him with a laugh, he'll tell her that an undercover mission requires the utmost authenticity. She'll roll her eyes with a twitch of a smile and he'll watch her move gracefully around the apartment, draped in the finest material while she searches for the perfect vase.

He wants to be the one to whisper in her ear about suspicious activity while they sway to a string quartet, his hands splayed across her lower backside. He'll brush his hands along the smooth lines of her neck while she blushes and pretends not to notice his obvious need to touch her. Maybe, if he's feeling brave, he'll close his eyes and let his cheek barely touch hers. And for a moment, just a moment, he'll make believe that it isn't a job, that they'll go home to their bed together, to each other's arms, and not to cold, separate beds on opposite sides of town.

But, unfortunately for him, he isn't even afforded his imagination this evening. He practically begged her, swore that he'd behave. But all she did was shake her head, affirming that _Nigel Winthrop (_he hates the British air of his name. Pfft.) had more experience with the workings of the British Consulate. Castle tried to point out that of course he did—he was the Deputy General—but she'd cut him off with a glare and a furrowed eyebrow.

He spent the last part of the afternoon sighing dramatically like clockwork as she pored over paperwork. He'd managed four of them before she threw her pen at him and threatened to sic Gates on him.

He glances at the clock on his computer screen. Nearing midnight. Surely she must be home by now, right? He can almost picture her padding around her apartment after kicking off her heels and freeing her hair from a confining bun.

He exits out of his writing program and shuts his laptop gently, running a hand through his short hair. He shouldn't.

He _really_ shouldn't.

There's a good chance she'll be irritated with him for showing up, especially at this hour, after he'd spent all afternoon whining.

He slips on his shoes, shaking his head at his own stupidity.

He scurries out past his mother and daughter; an excuse about needing a long walk to clear his writer's block slips easily from his mouth.

He dashes out into the crisp New York air, excuses for his late night appearance on her doorstep swirling in his mind.

He _does_ have writer's block.

Yeah. He's having trouble writing Nikki and he just needs to see her for a few minutes to get unstuck. That's all. He figured she'd be up after her little _thing_ at the ball.

Yeah. Good job, Castle.

He strolls out of the elevator once it reaches her floor, rubbing his hands together briskly.

He stops dead in his tracks several feet from her door, heart freezing in his chest. He watches, almost in slow motion, as she places a hand on _Nigel's_ chest, leaning in to brush a kiss across his cheek. She laughs a little and says something to him that he can't quite make out.

He starts to back away, to make a quick, graceful exit, but she catches him just as he nears the corner.

"Castle?" she asks, peering around the shoulder of the grey-haired man. Seriously. How old is this guy?

"Yeah," he says nonchalantly, taking a few tentative steps in her direction.

She opens her mouth to question him, he thinks, before she closes it and shakes her head once, turning back to Nigel.

"It was a pleasure working with you, Detective," Nigel says, clearing his throat uncomfortably. He turns to Castle and holds out a hand.

Castle forces a small smile and shakes it tightly.

"Always a pleasure, Mr. Castle."

Castle nods once. "Mr. Winthrop."

Castle watches him leave before he turns back to Kate, allowing himself to fully admire how insanely gorgeous she looks in her black dress. His eyes land on her face, which is scrunched in a frown.

She crosses her arms over her chest. "You done?"

"For what it's worth, you look stunning."

She rolls her eyes and lets her hands drop to her sides, turning to the door. She unlocks it and pushes it open. He stills, unsure of his next move.

But she doesn't close the door behind her, lets it hover in the middle, a grudging invitation for him to follow.

He steps in hesitantly and closes the door behind him. He finds her standing in front of the coat closet, kicking her shoes off. She twists the doorknob closed and pulls a few pins out of her hair, letting it dangle loosely at her shoulders. His breath hitches. Just like he imagined.

"You gonna stand there all night or are you gonna tell me what you're doing here at almost one in the morning?"

"Writer's block?" he offers lamely. It comes out as a question and not as fact, which really doesn't work in his favor. And now that it's out in the air, it sounds ridiculous, even to him.

"You know, for a writer, you're not very original," she says, padding softly to the kitchen. He watches as her dress swishes with her move, mesmerized.

"I—sorry?"

She's silent as she roots through her cupboards, searching for something. He watches, stunned, as she produces two wineglasses and a bottle of merlot.

She hands him a glass without a word. He takes a small sip, watches as she lets the smooth liquid slip down her throat.

Her gaze falls to her hands and she slides the glass between her long fingers.

"I wish it had been you with me there tonight, Castle," she says softly.

His spine straightens and he almost chokes. "You—you do?"

She nods, lifting her head, giving him a small smile. She removes the glass from his hand and sets them both on the coffee table.

She shakes her hair out of her eyes and takes a small step towards him, tugging her lip between her teeth. She lets out a small, shaky breath and meets his eyes again.

"Dance with me?"

His breath catches in his throat. She reaches for his wrist and places it on her hip. She chuckles a little as he watches in wonderment, stunned into silence. She threads his other hand with hers and places a warm palm on his shoulder.

"Where's the music?" he asks, finding his voice again.

Her eyes shine as she shrugs. "Make some."

He pulls her a little closer as he begins to hum "The Way You Look Tonight".

"You're such a cornball, Castle," she says. But the gentle lilt in her voice and fingertips at the very nape of his neck is all he needs to continue their song and dance.

He isn't sure how much time has passed—he only knows the chorus, anyway—before she lifts her head ever so slightly to brush her cheek against his. He loses his spot in the bridge before he has to start over. She lets out a little laugh and he knows his slip doesn't go unnoticed.

He lets out a little hum of disapproval as she removes her hand from his. His disappointment is short-lived, however, as her hands circle his neck gently.

"Much better than a crowded ball, wouldn't you say?" she asks softly.

God, she knows him too well.

"Even if the music selection is a bit limiting," she says wryly, lifting an eyebrow.

He narrows his eyes. "I don't hear anyone else complaining."

She hums in acknowledgment, lips twitching in amusement.

"At least you're light on your feet," she appraises.

"Oh, yeah? Lighter than a certain Deputy General?"

She scoffs. "_Winthrop?_ He's got two left feet," she says, a gleam dancing in her eye.

"Such a liar," he says without reproach.

She shrugs, grinning. "Maybe."

"He still got the good night kiss, though," he says bravely.

She doesn't even flinch. "Just the G-rated version. Jealous?"

He opens his mouth to play it off, to tell her that the notion is simply ridiculous, but he can't seem to find it in himself to back off, not when she's so willing to take a step forward.

"Yes."

She shakes her head. "Don't be." She lifts a palm to his cheek and he feels it tremble slightly. She takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Wanna shoot for the PG version?"

"We don't have to do this yet, Kate," he says, stilling her hand beneath his.

She leans in, lets her lips hover over his mouth. "I'm ready, Rick."

He lets out breath. "Thank God," he breathes before slanting his lips over hers, pulling her tightly to him. She lets out a little hum of pleasure as her fingers scrape at the back of his neck, slipping slightly under the collar of his shirt. His hands slide to her lower back, warm palms widely splayed.

She pulls away gently, pressing a kiss to the underside of his chin.

"Maybe a little PG-13, huh?" she teases softly, eyes smiling.

He smirks, almost cocky.

"How's that writer's block treating you?" she asks slyly, pressing a hand to his chest.

He lifts her palm to his mouth and kisses it gently. "You know, I'm suddenly feeling _very_ inspired."

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><p><strong>It seems that no matter how irresistible I find Charles Shaughnessy, he's no match for Castle. Shrug. <strong>

**Let me know what you think?**

**Olivia**


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